


Protective Camouflage

by politeanarchy



Series: Existing in the World [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Study, Gen, No Plot, POV Outsider, just some headcanon-y mutterings, no porn either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politeanarchy/pseuds/politeanarchy
Summary: Some thoughts on how an angel and a demon interact with the world, because I suspect the Antichrist isn't the only one who has an automatic defense thingy. Featuring, among other things, a possible explanation for what happens to the people who threaten Aziraphale's bookshop with real estate development or arson.





	Protective Camouflage

**Author's Note:**

> Written in second person, even though I mostly hate things written in second person, because I couldn't get it to work properly any other way. If you don't like stories that talk to _you_, give this one a miss. It's not a character/reader story, at any rate.

In a musty-smelling shop in Soho, there is a bookseller who is slightly terrifying.

It's never exactly clear why he should give you that impression. He's fussy, and a little nervous, and kind. He calls everyone "my dear." It's obvious that he loves his books. He's happy to talk to you about them, about themes and meanings, and about which editions have errors or corrections or insightful introductions written by other authors, who he is also absolutely delighted to talk about. When it comes to selling them, though, he's as protective as a mother hen with her chicks.

If, on finding a particularly interesting volume, you inquire about the price (which is never marked anywhere on the book itself), it leads to a rambling, fascinating discussion about the book, about the author's personal life and other influences, about other books that were written in response to this one. The bookseller helpfully bustles off to find some of them. Books pile up on the counter. Significant passages of text are pointed out, references and cross-references explored with a kind of mild intensity that it feels rude to interrupt with anything so irrelevant as another question about "How much for this one, then?"

Eventually, you realize with a start that it's gotten later than you realized, and you have somewhere else you need to be. So you rush off, promising to stop back again sometime for the book, and wondering, with vague fogginess, why you had been interested in that particular book in the first place. In any case, after everything you've been talking about, you have some new ideas. There's something else you maybe want instead. You're feeling positively _inspired_. Perhaps you'll try the library tomorrow.

Somehow, without ever saying it in so many words, he gives the message: _this is not for you_.

Sometimes, when you come into his shop, you aren't interested in buying books. You're interested in _valuable commercial real estate_. You're full of sympathy about how difficult it is to be a small business owner in this digital age. You point out that if he were interested in retiring a little early, he could perhaps make enough money in the sale of the building to make that retirement comfortable, if he knew the _right people_ to talk to. You mention worrying yet reasonable fears about how _fragile_ and _flammable_ books are, being made of paper and all.

There follows some affable conversation, during which the bookseller thanks you for your friendly concern, and makes a visible effort not to let his eyes follow your menacing dark-suited companions too closely. Somehow, the talk leads to discussion of how one becomes involved in _real estate investments_. "Oh, how interesting! You say these business concerns are" — a useful way to make money after earlier (half-forgotten) dreams had fallen through.

"My dear boy," he sighs. "I quite understand. But how terribly sad for you!"

You've spent your entire adult life learning to threaten and intimidate, and suddenly you find yourself remembering what you'd really wanted to be when you grew up. You think you might need to call your mother and apologize for how you've let her down. It might even occur to you to try a mid-life career change, one that could turn out to be unexpectedly successful and deeply fulfilling.

Later, maybe you remember trying to acquire a musty old bookshop in Soho, and wonder if you dreamed it. Why on earth would you have ever wanted such a thing? Did you talk to the bookseller? What about?

Somehow, without ever saying it in so many words, he gives the message: _this is not for you_.

Or you might notice him in other ways. He is perhaps not, as the expression goes, _conventionally handsome_. Indeed, there is very little about him that could be described as conventional. He is, however, attractive. Likeable. His eyes are as changeable in color as the sky, and they nearly always sparkle with the sheer joy of existing. He gives you the feeling that things are all right. That there is still good in the world. He has a talent, or perhaps an innate ability, to make you feel not only seen, but understood. There's a kind of resonance, a definite _frisson_, in being noticed. Being known. So many of us are searching for that one special person who will really, truly _get it_.

He's such a lovely, sympathetic gentleman. But somehow, you don't ever make any social efforts beyond ordinary civil courtesy. You don't wonder what he does on his days off. You don't ask if he wants to come for a pint with you and the lads, join in the usual discussions regarding the physical attractions of the other people in the pub. Possibly you tell him about the party you're having for your friend's birthday, but you don't suggest he might like to drop by later, if he's free. You don't invite him out for a coffee, or a cocktail. You've never considered whether it could be fun to ask him to admire your collection of etchings, even though he's definitely someone who would appreciate a good etching.

Why don't you? You're not sure. Maybe it never even crosses your mind. Or maybe it's that the idea contains an underlying quiver of fear that _something bad_ might happen if you pushed too hard on any boundaries. It's just the ghost of an impression, so slight you're almost not even aware of it, but you don't want to do anything that could offend him, and provoke a wrathful outburst.

Because human thoughts follow certain kinds of predictable patterns, this usually translates to a subconscious assumption of "...gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide." A smaller percentage of the population (between five and ten percent, maybe, although it's impossible to ever be sure anyone's estimates are accurate, and in any case, the numbers are probably higher in Soho) are more likely to think "Too bad he's so obviously repressed."

Both of these assumptions are fundamentally incorrect (because they fail to understand the nature of the entity in question) and even more fundamentally _correct_. Somehow, without ever saying it in so many words, he gives the message: _this is not for you_.

So the bookseller has a lovely quiet existence, for the most part. He is as unmemorable as the air. (Sometimes the sky produces a sudden thundery rumble, as if in warning. It can make you jump. But it doesn't look like it's actually going to rain, and you have other things to think about.)

* * *

In London, there is a flash bastard who is not interested in you.

You might see him on a fashionable street in Mayfair. You might notice him in a restaurant. You might catch a glimpse of him at the wheel of a flawlessly-maintained vintage car, as you dodge quickly out of the way to avoid being flattened by his gleaming streamlined juggernaut. You might even see him lounging around a musty old bookshop.

You notice him, of course. It would be hard not to. He's very noticeable. He is perhaps not, as the expression goes, _conventionally handsome_. Indeed, there is very little about him that could be described as conventional. He is, however, attractive. Hypnotic, even. He carries an air of mysterious danger. Maybe it's because his eyes are hidden behind dark, stylish sunglasses. Maybe it's his hair, an effortlessly chaotic tousle that looks like it's reflecting the glow of neon signs, even in the most ordinary lighting. Maybe it's that faint whiff of smoke you catch as he passes; not tobacco or wood smoke, but something harsher, chemical, slightly toxic. Slightly intoxicating. He walks like he's trying to slow-dance with a roller coaster. 

He may have even noticed you, too. But he's not interested.

Well, how could he be? You're not very interesting, are you? What have you ever done that might be worth his notice? You've led such a dull, ordinary life. Always playing by the rules, always careful, always just doing your best to try to do the right thing. It's not that you've never broken any rules, you're only human after all, but mostly it wasn't on purpose. You always felt a little bad about it.

This guy has broken rules. You can tell. He's grinning about it. He's breaking some rules _right now_, you're pretty sure. He's the kind of guy who hangs out with people infinitely cooler than you, who goes to all the wildest parties, who makes all the most questionable deals. This guy _knows things_. He knows people who know people. He knows where to get all the answers you've ever wanted, if you only knew how to ask. He could tell you some stories, for sure. You wish you had some stories of your own, to tell him. Then he might be interested. He might even be impressed.

He might be so impressed that he'd invite you to join him. Him in his car, going to his parties, chatting to his impressive friends. Maybe they'd be impressed too. Admire you for your daring, your cleverness in knowing just the right risks to take. You could be part of the glittering crowd of people who do things that are worth talking about. The people who strut through the world, all arrogant confidence, expecting to be given everything they could possibly want. The beautiful people, who break the rules and get away with it. Who break the rules and are rewarded for it. Powerful. Admired. Envied.

What would you do, to make yourself impressive? It's not like you haven't thought about that, before. You're only human, after all. This time, instead of talking yourself out of it, maybe you'll let yourself do it. You could tell the dull voice of reason (nagging at the back of your head) to _get stuffed_. You could live a little. You know of some ways you could tip the odds in your own favor. You know how to get your hands on some things that aren't supposed to be yours. You know you'll get in trouble if anyone finds out, but no one is ever going to find out, are they? You're too clever for that. And anyway, this sort of thing isn't _really_ so bad. Everyone does things like this. Plenty of people do worse things, all the time. Just this once won't hurt. Besides, it will be _worth it_.

If you ever run into that flash bastard again, you're going to have a story to tell him. You're going to give him a reason to notice you. _Then_ he'll be interested. He'll definitely be impressed. He loves to hear people's stories about how they broke the rules. You could have fun together. He knows how to show people a good time. But for now, he's disappeared into the crowd. Melted into the darkness of the alley behind the restaurant, behind the nightclub. Driven away and vanished in a tangle of traffic. You'll never see him again.

So the flash bastard has a surprisingly serene existence, for the most part, finding excitement when he feels like it, slipping through the world like an eel when he'd rather not be noticed. Or like something else that slithers. (You may have regrets in the morning. Who knows what you were thinking, last night, in the dark, in the neon and smoke. Oh well, it's too late now.)

* * *

Somewhere in the world, there are two person-shaped beings who you will never quite remember noticing. No doubt you would find them fascinating, given the chance, but your attention slides off them like...gosh, is that a new shop opening up in that building? It's been empty for months. Nice to see something there at last. What were you thinking about, again?

They're nearby, though. One of them has bright hair, and a pale old-fashioned coat, and a kind of radiant cheerfulness. The other is dark and angular and slouching, cocking one cynical eyebrow over the impenetrable lenses of his sunglasses. They're sitting on the bench you just walked past, right before you saw the ice cream cart and thought, "Mm, what a good idea."

They're at a table on the far side of the restaurant, deep in conversation and intensely focused on each other. No, maybe that was someone else. The waiter is blocking your view, anyway, and you're ready to order.

They're leaning on the railing, looking over the lake. It's a beautiful day; lots of people are doing the same. Some children are running around excitedly. You're enjoying the warmth of the sun. They catch your eye because they're such an oddly-assorted pair: one is wearing impossibly tight black trousers, and looks a bit flash. The other is dressed in light-colored, out-of-date clothes, well-loved and well-worn. The dark one leans towards the bright one, smiling, and—

"Ducks!" A high-pitched voice startles you, as one of the children you'd seen earlier nearly knocks you over in the excitement of seeing some birds landing on the water.

"Yes, darling. And _those_ are pelicans," says someone who sounds parental.

You throw the last of your sandwich crust to the black swan, and wander off. And so you miss hearing what they said to each other, that pair of people who seemed just slightly out-of-place.

They're drinking wine in the back of an old bookshop, relaxing on a battered, comfortable couch. You catch a glimpse of warm yellow lamplight through the window as you pass, hear a brief snatch of music and laughter. It's evening, and the shop is closed, but apparently someone's still in there, having a nice time. You're looking forward to getting home and relaxing, yourself.

No one is there to notice them but themselves. Left to their own devices, they are free to direct their attentions to one another, leaning close together on the couch. "Did they _really_, angel?" He laughs, delightedly, and takes another drink of wine. "Now that _is_ interesting."

"Yes, I thought so too," says the other, fondly. "Oh, that reminds me, my dear." He gets up, rummages amongst the clutter on the desk. "This is for you."

**Author's Note:**

> The not-exactly-sequel to this from my [Tumblr](https://politeanarchy.tumblr.com/post/190227297893/long-game) has now been added as a proper second-part-of-a-series.


End file.
